


Where's Granger When You Need Her?

by playout



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Animal Transformation, Capable Harry, Cute overload, Fluff, HP: EWE, Hogwarts, Humor, Illustrated, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Potions Accident, Potions Master Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-11 13:06:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 11,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4436588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playout/pseuds/playout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hogwarts' Potions Master is working on an experimental brew. He really should know better than to turn his back on an unstable potion. Now if only there were someone in the castle who could help...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PrinnPrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrinnPrick/gifts).



> Idea and creative direction by PrinnPrick. Universe by JK Rowling. Angry Malfoys and pantsless Potters by me XD
> 
> Please note that the rating and tags may change. I'll be sure to let you know if they do. Also, this fic will update irregularly. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Draco stirred the potion carefully, noting its colour and consistency. The viscous liquid shifted subtly from pale turquoise to aquamarine and gave off an aroma not unlike wet dog. He was getting close--he could feel it. He might even have the recipe perfected before the students returned from winter hols.

He jotted in his notebook the alterations he had made to this batch (an extra tablespoon of Fluxweed, finely dicing the Boomslang skin rather than shredding it, stirring anti-clockwise while adding the Bicorn horn). The last attempt had been a partial success, giving him whiskers, claws, and an unpleasant lump that could have been a vestigial tail. Though he desperately hoped his animal form was something more formidable than a house cat, a full transformation of any type would cement his reputation as the foremost living brewer.

...An animagus potion. Think of it! Easy to administer, widely accessible ingredients, minimal side-effects--he'd make a fortune from Ministry contracts alone! He just needed to fine-tune it. ...Along with a brew to reverse its effects.

Draco was holding his quill loosely, running theoretical antidote variations through his head, when an ominous burble and snap sounded from behind him. He turned just in time to see the potion erupt in a thick plume of purple smoke before exploding violently--coating him in hot, sticky goo.

His immediate thoughts were consumed with the removal of the scalding substance from his person. He didn't have time to worry about the fact a good portion had gotten into his eyes and mouth. That is, not until the bone-twisting, stomach-churning pain of transformation set in, erasing all petty concern for things like ruined robes and superficial burns. He clutched his stomach and doubled over in agony, dangerously close to sicking up on his Oxfords. The room spun dizzily and suddenly he was falling.

Everything went dark.

Moments passed. The pain ebbed by degrees but left behind the disorienting sensation of Draco's body parts being in the wrong configuration. He couldn't see a thing and felt like he was being smothered. Debilitating panic raced at the edges of his mind. As he struggled to right himself and caught flashes of light in the darkness, he realized the problem--he was tangled in a pile of his now far-too-big clothing. So much for being something fearsome.

Unless perhaps he was a snake, he thought hopefully. His body did feel long and sinuous. Maybe he was a lovely emerald tree boa or a fearsome black mamba.

He attempted to slither and found himself hampered by four skittering limbs.

Bugger.

He squirmed his way out of his robes and twisted his over-long spine to inspect himself and was met with a sight that chilled his blood--

Snow-white fur, tiny, pink paws, and a fluffy bottlebrush tail. Salazar, **no**!

Heart in his throat (or something; it was a bit hard to tell where everything was at the moment), he scampered--fucking _scampered_ \--to the full-length mirror he kept in the lab. He knew what he would see in its reflection long before he arrived, though he tried valiantly to deny it until the last possible moment.

With a crushing sense of dread, Draco placed his forepaws on the black lacquered frame and pulled himself up for a look.

Bloody hell. He was _adorable_!


	2. Chapter 2

Loathe as he was to admit it, Draco needed help. He couldn't so much as hold his wand in this infernal form, let alone wield magic.

It was fortunate he kept detailed notes of all of his experiments: any halfway decent potions student should be able to create an antidote with a bit of time and study of his process.

Unfortunately, in addition to being meticulous, Draco was also paranoid--all his journal entries were written in code to protect his secrets from prying eyes, which meant he needed to locate a sympathetic potioneer _and_  a code-breaker, or at least someone smart enough to determine that's what the situation called for. Which...limited his options.

Though she was a clever witch--nearly sorted Ravenclaw, he'd learned during his first year as her colleague--he would rather Minerva not hear of the incident if it could be avoided. She might restrict his lab privileges. Flitwick, of course, enjoyed a good riddle, but he was off visiting family for the holiday. The other professors were obvious no's--

Except...

No.

Well. _Maybe_.

What choice did he have?

At least the man stood a fair chance of recognizing him in his current shape. For better and for worse.

Cursing the fates for their unceasingly cruel sense of humour, Draco resolved to make the long trek to the first floor for the Gryffindor Head's Office. It was small consolation that he wouldn't have to go all the way across the castle or up too many of its one hundred forty two staircases in search of aid. The journey would be perilous enough as it was. He hoped against hope Mrs. Norris III wasn't out patrolling the halls or that he encountered any errant students on the way. Merlin forbid he be mistaken for a pet. Or worse--vermin.

Venturing forth to seek help from a most unwelcome source, Draco made it all of five paces--foolish-looking bounding leaps, really--before encountering his first obstacle. The door to his lab was shut and locked tight. (He did not like to be interrupted while he was working). At least he discovered a silver lining to the detestable body in which he was trapped--he was able to squeeze under the narrow opening at the bottom with little difficulty. Apparently he was made of fluff and whimsy because he was able to contort himself into highly improbable positions to do so. It was...unseemly.

Paws skittering, claws clacking quick and light, he stuck to the edge of the wall and covered the dungeon's flagstones with surprising efficiency given his small frame. He was more than eager to be himself again. Enough even to outweigh his foreboding over the impending encounter. Though Salazar knows how he was supposed to attempt civil discourse with _Potter_ when he was limited to little more than high-pitched trills and squeaks--the two of them had a hard enough time speaking in the Minister's English.

Truthfully, he and Potter had managed to establish a polite, if frosty, rapport for the sake of their positions within the school. With the Gryffindor on the Pitch most days and Draco in the dank bowels of the castle, they really only saw each other at meal times and staff meetings and did a fair job of pretending the other didn't exist when that happened. Their exceedingly rare instances of conversation were mostly limited to grunts and nods anyway, so perhaps his mission wouldn't be as difficult as he feared. After all, Potter had a hero's reputation to uphold... 

Pausing here and there to hide in the shadows when he thought he heard voices or sensed the presence of wandering ghosts, Draco ascended the dungeon stairway. His little nose quivered frantically at the many smells that accosted his senses when he passed the kitchens. Undeterred, he crossed the grand entrance, slunk beneath the gaze of slumbering portraits, and made his way into enemy territory. He sighed in resignation (the puff of air making his whiskers oddly tingly) and, steeling himself for the worst, wormed his too-malleable body beneath Potter's wooden door.

He was not even remotely prepared for what he stumbled into.


	3. Chapter 3

Potter's living room was empty, but the fact that he was present was absolutely unmistakable with Draco's heightened senses.

Not just present-- _Salazar_ \--the man was **wanking**.

Draco was more than a little disturbed he could discern that fact from scent alone. Potter's unique aroma was the only fresh one in the modest set of rooms, which meant there was no one else with him, and the thick, cloying smell of sex absolutely permeated the place.

He could practically taste it.

He realized belatedly he had noticed it in the hall, though faintly. His brain hadn't had a chance to register the scent before he'd crawled under the door. By that point, it was much too late.

Over and around the deeply visceral experience of breathing in a cloud of Potter's sex--Draco's pink nose all but vibrated in its frenzied sniffing (quite against his will)--were the noises.

Dear Merlin, _the_ _noises_.

Draco was hardly a blushing virgin: he'd had his fair share of sexual escapades. But even in the most intimate of contexts, never had he heard the wet, urgent, panting, gasping, slapping, squelching sounds of sex with such vivid clarity and lurid detail. (He could tell without looking that Potter was using both hands to pleasure himself, which was rather more adventurous than he would have given the unsophisticated Gryffindor credit for.) It made his fur stand on end.

It also made him feel funny in his ferrety bits, but that was a sensation best left unexplored. He did _not_ want to know how a visibly aroused mustelid looked. Blech.

Feeling guilty for snooping, however unintentionally, he slunk across the floor to Potter's lumpy, brown sofa and clambered onto it. The whole room was decorated with an emphasis on comfort over fashion, no surprise there. Draco intended to burrow beneath one of the mismatched pillows to give Potter at least a modicum of privacy--a man was entitled to an afternoon wank in his own home, was he not?--but then he heard something that made his ears swivel sharply in the direction of the bedroom and his neck twist to follow.

No, he must have been mistaken.

Surely Potter hadn't just--

"Oooh _Draco_!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the super short chapters. Not sorry for the cliffhangers ;)


	4. Chapter 4

Draco squeaked. He couldn't help it. The shock was just too great. Was Potter really wanking to thoughts of _him_?

He had to be sure.

He leapt off the sofa and landed in a rolling tumble, hindquarters working independently of the fore in his haste. He righted himself quickly and flowed across the floor, body moving in sinuous waves (like some kind of foolish land-bound sea serpent), avoiding furniture and discarded quidditch gear on his way to the other side of the room.

When he arrived at Potter's open doorway, he paused, debating the moral rightness of his actions.

Until he heard his name again (in a wickedly, _deliciously_ throaty groan) and the decision was made for him. He scurried inside the bedroom with enough sense remaining to take cover, easily avoiding detection by its occupant, who was somewhat distracted at present.

Securely sheltered beneath a heavy armoire, Draco was nearly bowled over by the overwhelming stimuli of being so close to the action. The powerful sounds and smells overloaded the tiny ferret brain that housed his consciousness. It kept trying to distill his possible responses down to the basics: fight, flight, freeze, or fuck (strongly favouring the latter).

Filtering out the sensory noise as best he could, he cautiously poked his head out and saw what he'd expected--Potter was indeed wanking.

Rather spectacularly.

Totally nude, on his knees, with his chest and face pressed into the wall for support. His eyes were screwed tightly shut as he worked himself with one speeding hand on his cock and the other three knuckles deep in his arse. His hair was damp and matted, his spectacles abandoned, and his mouth hung open as he whimpered and panted.

If Draco hadn't already known he was utterly and irrevocably gay, that sight would have settled it for him--there could be no going back to women after something like that. He was exceedingly grateful that Potter was making enough noise to cover up the eager trills and purrs he couldn't seem to smother. Damn potion. He would need to consider this experience when crafting the warning label.

He dared to creep out from his hiding spot and balance upright on his hind legs for a better view. Potter seemed close to climax. He wasn't the only one. It was an embarrassing struggle for Draco to keep from humping the ruddy furniture leg (which was a detail he would take to his grave.)

The Gryffindor tossed his head back with a strangled cry, his ligaments and muscles taut and straining, the hand in his arse stilling while the one on his cock jerked unsteadily. Ropy strands of come painted the wall and Draco whimpered--his creature brain and human mind clashing fiercely over what he should do.

Or maybe it was his own libido.

Either way, prudence won out. He hurried from the room while Potter caught his breath, eyes still closed the last he checked. He'd give the man several minutes to compose himself before attempting wizard-ferret negotiations; time he could use to figure out just what he was going to do with this wholly unexpected revelation.

Salazar, he needed his body back.


	5. Chapter 5

Draco returned to his vacated spot on the sofa and curled into a non-threatening position (not that he could convey much threat even if he tried). He figured the best way to approach Potter would be to let the man find him first.

Tucking his head into his paws, he kept a listening ear out for the sound of approach. After a minute of Potter thumping around the bedroom, he heard the the en suite shower come on.

Alone with his thoughts, he racked his mind for any clues of this secret interest in him Potter apparently harboured. Everyone knew Draco was gay, of course. There was no sense in hiding it. But Potter had always been enigmatic about his dating life. The papers had snapped a few pictures of him lunching with male Quidditch players on occasion and speculated wildly about the nature of their relationship, but it was easy to write that off as tabloid fodder--after all, he lunched with female Quidditch players, as well. It was hardly compelling evidence the man might be bi-sexual, but the Prophet seldom troubled itself over such trivialities. The fact that Potter got himself off while thinking about Draco, on the other hand...

And he'd called him by his first name! Never in their fifteen-plus ill-fated years of knowing each other had he ever referred to Draco as anything other than Malfoy, delivered with a grimace, frown, or sneer, more often than not. It just didn't add up!

Regrettably, Draco didn't have the luxury of continuing that line of thought--Potter was a spartan bather. The water shut off mere minutes after he started and the door to the loo opened another minute after that. From it wafted the alluring scent of Potter's soap.

Lemon and sage.

He'd been using that brand at least since taking the Flying Instructor's post at Hogwarts. And Draco had been noticing it just as long. It was always there, subtly, beneath the layers of sweat and grass and broom polish. Potter smelled like the outdoors--in the best of ways. He smelled like flying. Like sunshine. Freedom. Adventure.

It was intoxicating.

It was also the reason Draco had eliminated Amortentia from his Newt-level curriculum. (What he'd told Minerva was that the potion was too dangerous in the hands of hormone-addled adolescents, which was factually accurate.)

He wanted to roll around in that smell. To fill his fur with it so he could carry it with him always.

 _Stop it!_ he scolded himself sternly. _You're thinking like a bloody ferret! You do not want to--_

Footsteps.

He closed his eyes and feigned sleep.

It was harder than it should have been with the compelling urge to look up and drink in the sight of the man igniting his synapses. Potter went into the kitchenette and put on a kettle to boil. It was strange how Draco could see everything so clearly in his mind's eye without the use of sight. The only true unknown to him was how Potter was currently dressed.

...There were pros and cons to all possibilities.

It became increasingly difficult to stay quiet the longer Potter puttered about his living space. He began to worry the man would miss him entirely and go out into the castle for the remainder of the day, leaving him trapped and helpless in a place he really ought not to be. He was working through contingency plans when a surprised voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Hullo! Where did _you_ come from?"

Draco pretended not to notice, though inside he rejoiced.

Potter approached, his footfalls light and easy. Draco heard him crouch down next to him, most likely appraising the odd little creature making itself at home on his sofa. A gentle fingertip stroked his spine. It startled him so badly he flipped onto his back, claws up, spitting menace and anger before he even fully processed what was happening.

"Whoa," Potter said, rocking back on his heels and holding his hands defensively before his face. From this distance his eyes looked impossibly big and green, and Draco could pick out the individual hairs of his five o'clock shadow. He also had a rosy tint to his cheeks, but whether that was from his shower or his earlier activity was unclear.

_Still no spectacles. No shirt for that matter._

Heart racing thunderously and body taut, Draco couldn't assess what Potter may or may not be wearing on his bottom half. Really, though, the question should be lower on his list of priorities.

"Easy there," Potter murmured gently, lowering his hands. "I'm sorry I scared you."

Draco worked hard to control his breathing and relax his rigid posture. Watching Potter unblinkingly for so much as a _hint_ of threat (which his human mind knew would never come), he rolled back onto his feet and took a cautious step toward the man.

Potter remained unmoving, expression soft and kind, putting the ferret part of Draco at ease. Perhaps he'd learned that trick from the Groundskeeper. Warily, Draco extended a paw towards him and held it there.

"What, you want to shake hands?" Potter asked incredulously, easy laughter making his words melodic. Draco held his gaze. That was exactly what he wanted to do.

"In that case," Potter replied, grinning, touching his forefinger to Draco's paw, "pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Ferret."

Draco forced thoughts of a once rejected handshake out of his mind and contemplated other ways to communicate his identity to Potter instead.

"Who taught you that trick, I wonder?" Potter mused, taking the handshake as permission to touch Draco once again. He lightly scratched between his shoulder blades and up to the crown of his head. Draco went stiff, but not because it felt unpleasant. No, it was almost mind-numbingly good. He held still to keep from debasing himself for more.

"You're a clever little thing, aren't you?" Potter continued, wholly unaware of Draco's struggle. "And so handsome!" Draco resisted the urge to preen, but he did rub himself against Potter's fingers. (Added to the list of things he would _not_ be talking about later.) "Sweetling," Potter cooed, his smile pleased. "Your owner must be missing you terribly."

Having Potter fawn over him was rather nice, but Draco was a ferret-- _ahem_. **Man** on a mission. Unfortunately, he had yet to divine a foolproof way to make Potter realize he was a wizard, not a runaway pet.

 _Where's Granger when you need her?_ She would have figured it out the moment she laid eyes on him and probably been halfway to developing a reversal potion by now.

Draco sighed.

It was too much to hope that she would be visiting soon.


	6. Chapter 6

An hour had gone by. A whole bloody _hour_ of Draco performing feat after feat to demonstrate his humanity to Potter: 

Walking upright on his hind legs in his best approximation of a man's gait (which was damn near impossible with his soggy noodle of a body), holding Potter's wand in his jaw and waving it like he was casting a spell (as best he could--the piece of wood was relatively heavy and nearly as long as him), using a quill to make indecipherable scratches on a piece of parchment (he'd intended to write his name, but that he successfully did _anything_ was fucking impressive, in his opinion).

Potter, the insufferable imbecile, sat there in his damp towel, grinning and clapping like he was at the bloody circus. He kept remarking how clever Draco was and that his "tricks" were brilliant.

Draco was absolutely at his wit's end. Every time he seriously considered biting Potter, however, the oaf would scoop him up for a cuddle--taking serious ruddy liberties--and scratch all the spots that made him forget his anger momentarily.

At the present, Potter was holding him suspended a scant few inches from his face, babbling at him about how he'd love to keep him but that would be unfair to his owner who was probably distraught over losing him, and that he really should put some clothes on and go looking for that person but that Draco was just too adorable to leave, even for a short while.

The A-word pushed him over the edge.

He nipped the end of Potter's nose hard enough to draw a speck of blood. Potter yelped and dropped him onto the sofa, where Draco glared murderously up at the erstwhile Saviour.

" _Ow!_ " Potter complained, rubbing the wound. "That wasn't very nice."

Draco unleashed a furious tirade about how it _wasn't very nice_ to be trapped as a stupid fucking ferret with a doe-eyed idiot Gryffindor as his best bloody hope of ever turning back, especially when said idiot Gryffindor was mostly naked and at least partially interested in him and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it until he had his body back.  

Even to his own ears, it sounded like so much meaningless chatter, though some of his hisses and the lower register growls were fairly expressive, at least.

"Put your hackles down, Malfoy," Potter sighed exasperatedly.

Draco froze.

...Actually, he continued ranting for the three full seconds it took for him to process the implications of Potter's statement, _then_ he froze.

_What did you say?_ he chirped, temporarily forgetting Potter couldn't understand a word he said.

Potter laughed, but it wasn't the rich, joyful laughter of the last many minutes--there was a bitter edge to it. Draco felt the difference acutely.

"Of course I know it's you, prat." Potter rolled his eyes. "I knew straight away. You're a rather distinctive ferret."

Draco gaped. _But he...then why...?_

"You don't think very highly of my intelligence, do you?" Potter continued, grimly cynical. (In point of fact, no, but Draco wasn't about to say as much to the man who held his fate in his hands and was a good deal more vindictive than he'd previously given him credit for.)

"I didn't mention it at first because I didn't know your end game," Potter explained in a dry, lecturer's style. "I thought perhaps you'd come to spy on me, for old time's sake." His cheeks tinged ever-so-slightly pink at the admission; he must suspect that Draco had seen him earlier. (He didn't mean to! ...Mostly.)

Potter continued, undaunted, "It's been a while since we obsessively stalked each other, hasn't it?" Draco snuffed. He didn't appreciate reminders of that era after working so diligently to move past it. Potter cocked a brow at him but didn't comment.

"At any rate, after a couple minutes of you being nice to me, I realized you must need me for something. You're never nice to me otherwise." Draco wanted to argue that Potter was hardly a paragon of kindness toward him either, but again, now was not the time. "It wasn't hard to put two and two together after that. Since you didn't go to Minerva, I'm assuming you don't want her to know. Which means you probably did this to yourself, yes?"

Draco nodded, reluctantly.

"Right. So that means I can rule out hexes and curses." He leaned forward, spearing Draco with his glittering emerald gaze. "I'm thinking potions accident."

Draco nodded again, swallowing his pride to admit it and wondering in the back of his mind why Potter had retired so young from the Auror corps--he was a surprisingly good detective.

"How embarrassing," Potter smirked. Draco fluffed himself up and chattered at him in annoyance.

"Rather like being caught with your trousers down, isn't it?" Potter retorted archly, one raised eyebrow matching his tone.

_I didn't do it on purpose_ , Draco replied sulkily (since they were apparently having a conversation). _And you don't have to be such a prat about it._

Potter chuckled, a welcome throwback to his former good humour. "I don't know what you're saying, but I know your cadence, ferret or not, and it isn't wise to call your would-be rescuer names." 

Draco was suitably chastened.

Potter stood, clutching his towel to his waist to prevent it from slipping. Pity. "Well," he said. The shadow of a smile lingered at the corners of his mouth and eyes. "Let me get dressed and then we'll get you sorted."

Draco was so grateful he could cry. ...Possibly. He wasn't sure that ferrets had tear ducts. Regardless, he leapt off the sofa before he could think better of it and twined himself around Potter's legs in thanks.

"Come on then," Potter offered, picking him up to cradle in the crook of his arm. Draco allowed it. He was feeling generous. "Are you _sure_ you want to change back?" he asked teasingly, ruffling Draco's scruff. "You're more likable as a ferret, you know."

The warning growl that vibrated in Draco's chest was small but sincere. And he paired it with his most fearsome glare.

Potter laughed, heading in the direction of his bedroom. "I should probably call Hermione," he mused thoughtfully on the way.

Draco couldn't agree more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story art by PrinnPrick: https://orig00.deviantart.net/e0df/f/2015/233/3/7/ferret_by_prinnprick-d95zn4a.jpg


	7. Chapter 7

Potter set Draco on the bed before going to rummage through his drawers for clothes. When his back was turned, Draco gave in to the irresistible temptation to coat himself in the Gryffindor's musk, hating himself for it even as he was doing it.

"Were you experimenting with an animal transfiguration potion?" Potter asked conversationally, facing Draco as he pulled on a pair of grey pants beneath the towel with the characteristic lack of embarrassment of one who'd spent a good deal of time in locker rooms. "Or is this an unexpected side effect of something else?"

Draco's whiskers twitched. He was protective of his work by nature, but Potter would need to know about it if he was to have any chance of helping him. He was at a loss on how to give an answer beyond 'yes' or 'no,' however. He blinked slowly at Potter to communicate as much.

"Oh, right." Potter gave a self-depreciating grin and dropped the towel to step into a loose pair of faded denims. "Um...bark once if this was on purpose and twice if not."

Draco's muzzle wrinkled in distaste. In his opinion, the only thing those awful trousers had going for them was the fact they sat low on Potter's hips, thereby displaying the lovely musculature of his lower abdomen. Daily flying was fantastic exercise, apparently. Perhaps he ought to take it up again. They could--

He was getting ahead of himself. First things first: returning to a form that could even handle a broom. (Or a _man_ , his id unhelpfully suggested. He ignored it.)

To achieve that end he must answer Potter's question. He chuffed thrice. He hadn't _meant_ to ingest the potion but neither was his transfiguration a wholly unintended consequence.

Potter pushed his head and arms through a pale green t-shirt, making his hair an even more wild mess. "That was three," he observed astutely. "Either you're being intentionally contrary, which I wouldn't put past you, or my guesses were off the mark."

Draco yipped twice for the second option, letting Potter's insult slide (for now).

"Hm...you were working on the potion but you didn't expect to transform? Or you did, but not into a ferret? I can't imagine that bit was intentional," Potter smirked.

Draco glowered but indicated the first response with a single grunt. It was the more accurate of the two.

Potter retrieved his spectacles from the nightstand and balanced them on his nose. "Well, it's still bloody impressive. Wizards have been trying to figure out a potion like that for almost as long as there have been animagi."

Draco didn't need the history lesson--he knew the material by heart, of course--but Potter's admiration was not something he would ever refuse. He pranced in a circle on the duvet and ended it with a regal bow, making Potter laugh, warm and easy as before (it did unspeakable, butterfly-like things to his insides).

"Come on then," Potter said, holding out his palm for Draco to scamper up. He did, quietly grieving the loss of the delightful camaraderie they had managed to establish, which would fall by the wayside as soon as he was back to his usual self, he was sure.

"I don't suppose you have the antidote brewed and ready in your lab, do you?" Potter asked hopefully, holding Draco safe and snug against his chest. Resisting the urge to nuzzle, he shook his head no.

"Didn't think so," Potter replied. "In that case, we'll detour to the Headmistress' Office to fire-call Hermione before heading to the Dungeons. Unless you object to that plan?"

Draco shook his head again and licked the knuckle of Potter's thumb.

It was a good plan.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Em *Squee!* You guys!! Check out PrinnPrick's stinkin' adorable illustration for this fic, newly posted at the end of chapter 6. It's just too cute! XD
> 
> Also, what's this Star Wars reference doing in my HP fandom? ;)

Draco waited on the shoulders of the gargoyle guarding the portal to the Headmistress' Office while Potter made his fire-call (lest he be spotted by the too clever witch who resided therein and his secret discovered).

His body thrummed with nervous energy and he absently scratched at his ears for want of something better to do, the rapid _scritch-scritch-scritch_  vaguely soothing.

He missed Potter's warmth already and that was more than a little worrisome. Just because the man was being friendly and helpful now didn't mean it would continue after he completed his good deed for the day. Yes, there had been that bit in the bedroom, but that just opened up more questions than it provided answers.

 _What was the nature of his interest? Was it purely sexual? How long had it been in existence? Why had he never made a move? Would he want to pursue a relationship if given the opportunity?_ And so on.

Draco became so caught up in his thoughts that he nearly fell off his perch when the staircase suddenly lurched to admit the object of his obsession. Clinging to the stone for dear life, he willed his fluttering, panicked heart to settle after the scare.

"All right there, pet?" Potter simpered with mock-concern. Draco hissed, baring his claws, but it only made the prat chuckle harder. For that, Draco took a swipe at him when he went to collect him from the statue, deeply satisfied by the wounded yelp that followed.

"Try that again and you're on your own," Potter warned darkly. "Spiteful little bastard," he grumbled under his breath, shaking out his stinging thumb.

Draco chuffed in response. He considered walking to the Dungeons under his own power, but it was a _long_ walk, especially for his small legs. ...And he rather liked being carried.

He chirruped at Potter, cocking his head to the side and ensuring his tail was extra fluffy. Potter appraised him with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. "Is that supposed to be an apology?" he asked skeptically.

 _No. I'm manipulating you because you find my cuteness enchanting. Now pick me up and return me to the dungeons, human slave,_ Draco replied sweetly, the words translating to a collection of chirps and purrs.

Potter continued to hesitate so Draco rolled onto his back and presented his belly (electing to think of the degrading act as a perfectly Slytherin tactic to achieve his goals).

Potter's expression faltered. "That's just not fair," he whinged, succumbing to the desire to tickle Draco's downy pelt despite his protest. ...They both enjoyed it probably more than they should.

"This is bloody weird, you know," Potter opined, running two fingers down Draco's chest and back up again in a slow, steady rhythm that made Draco's eyelids heavy and a genuine purr threaten to sound. "When I think about the fact you're not really a ferret, but rather--" He swallowed what he was going to say, a rosy flush tinting his cheeks.

 _You can stroke me any day, Potter,_ Draco saucily replied (because Potter didn't understand him so he could).

Potter withdrew his hand. "I'm pretty sure you're giving me bedroom eyes and that is where I draw the line," he announced with a shudder. Draco flipped onto his feet, his laughter sounding like a combination _wheeze_ and _sneeze_.

"Laugh it up, fuzzball," Potter intoned. He pointed a finger at Draco and sardonically declared, "I should feed you to Mrs. Norris."

_You wouldn't._

"Try me."

Draco stuck out his tongue.

Potter never did bring out the best in him.

"Are you coming or not?" the Gryffindor demanded impatiently and Draco remembered that he was in something of a hurry to resolve his current predicament. He scrambled down the gargoyle's arm and reached for Potter, who was gracious enough to offer his hand.

"Hermione's going to join us as soon as Ron gets home so he can watch Rose," Potter informed him on their way through the corridor. Draco wanted to know what she had been told but couldn't ask.

No matter. Despite the inauspicious start to his afternoon, things were looking up.


	9. Chapter 9

They arrived at Draco's dungeon lab quickly and without difficulty. Unfortunately, getting inside would be another matter--the door was still locked tight.

"Are these wards going to do anything nasty to me if I trip them?" Potter asked, frowning thoughtfully at the lines of magic crisscrossing the wood.

Draco shook his head. They'd give someone a sizable shock if triggered, but that didn't qualify as nasty in his book. (Although living with the Dark Lord might have skewed his perspective somewhat.) He'd seen enough of Potter in action to be reasonably sure he could handle them.

"All right. I'm going to need both hands," Potter announced, gingerly placing Draco on the ground.

He stepped off to the side to watch the man work. Potter didn't bother with his wand, merely poked and prodded at the intricate threads of the warding magic (made visible by a useful Auror's spell) until he found the anchoring knot and tugged it free. What would have taken Draco at least five minutes to accomplish, he did in less than two and with a tremendous level of finesse. Draco was duly impressed.

With skill like that, he could be teaching more than just Flying, that much was certain. Perhaps he would take over for Flitwick when the Charms instructor finally retired. Or there was always Defense. Bilburry had held the post the last two years, meaning the so-called curse--if there ever truly was one--was broken, but the rate of turnover for the position remained unusually high.

"Are there dangers inside I should be aware of?" Potter wisely inquired before stepping through. Apparently even Gryffindors could learn to look before they leapt. Draco shook his head. None besides the usual dangers of a well-kept Potions lab, at any rate.

Potter opened the door and Draco scampered ahead to his workstation, noting the signs of chaos he'd missed earlier. (He had been too busy turning into a ruddy domesticated weasel to take proper stock.) Purple-black potion coated everything in a five-foot blast radius, his coat rack was overturned, several items on the prep table were knocked sideways, and a few littered the floor along with his discarded pile of clothes.

Potter followed behind, assessing the scene with a practiced eye. After a minute, he stooped to pick up Draco's robes and wand, the latter of which he stowed in his back pocket. Despite the way his own clothing had been strewn about his living quarters, he carefully folded Draco's and found a clean place to put them.

Draco was touched by the gesture.

He bounded to his desk to show Potter his journals--the absolute most important things in the room. While he was trying to decide how best to reach them, Potter came alongside and hoisted him up. Draco impulsively licked the side of his index finger where it rested under his chin. He really needed to stop doing that but his brain kept insisting it was a good way to show his appreciation, which would be problematic if it continued after he was human again.

He wriggled out of Potter's grasp and jumped onto the table to draw the man's attention to his notes. Potter's eyes lit up when he recognized the leather-bound books for what they were, but his expression quickly fell when he glanced inside.

"They're _coded_ , Draco?" he exclaimed, disappointment evident in his tone. " _Really?_ " He thumbed through several pages, saving the place the book had been opened to, but he needn't have bothered checking--they were all the same. "How paranoid can you be?"

 _As much as I damn well please_ , Draco huffed, only realizing after the fact Potter had called him by his first name. It wasn't even in the throes of passion this time!

Whether it was a slip or not, it left him feeling inordinately gratified. He trilled about it (quite without his permission) and then attended to a suddenly very interesting invisible speck on his left foreleg to avoid doing something more embarrassing.

"Well, I can at least get this place cleaned up so Hermione won't have to wait to brew after she's cracked your barmy code," Potter announced, more to himself than Draco, it seemed.

He set to work righting upended bottles of ingredients and retrieving lost articles from the floor. Draco was content to sit on his haunches and observe, but with a sudden bolt of panic he yipped at Potter to warn him off of touching any of the tacky dried potion.

Potter stopped immediately. "What?" he said, looking around for the unknown threat. Draco pointed at the nearest splatter mark and shook his head urgently. Potter sighed, giving him an expression that was simultaneously indignant and indulgent.

"I appreciate your concern," he replied wryly, pushing his spectacles back up his nose from where they slid a bit. "I'm also mildly offended you still think I'm that dumb. This isn't my first time in a lab, you realize." He waggled his fingers in front of Draco and a shield charm materialized around them, pale and shimmering.

Oh.

 _Carry on then_ , Draco imperiously dismissed, turning on the spot to settle in for a nap. _Wake me when Granger's here._


	10. Chapter 10

Draco was rudely awakened from his dozing by a soggy bar rag. He sprung several inches off the desk, damp fur sticking in every direction, spitting bloody murder and whipping his head around to locate the soon-to-be-dead Gryffindor who was responsible.

Potter was leaning against the brewing table, a casual hand on one hip and laugher in his eyes. "Mornin', sunshine," he drawled.

Draco hissed, fiercely torn between charging the bastard and fixing his fur.

Vanity won out.

He turned his back sharply on Potter and began combing his matted hair into place, methodical and deliberate in his actions.

Potter came to stand next him, a bold choice, all things considered. "I'm finished cleaning," he declared needlessly. "You're welcome for that, by the way," he added, sarcastic and glib.

"I get that you couldn't do much to help, but you could've kept me company, at least. Git."

Draco paused to look sideways at the man, appraising. It was true Potter had made a few offhanded remarks while organizing the pots and jars that had been displaced and he'd ignored them--he couldn't very well reply in any sort of meaningful way, could he?--but Potter had genuinely wanted to converse, it seemed, and he was now put out because Draco hadn't reciprocated.

That wouldn't do.

Deeming the rest of it a lost cause, Draco scrubbed his paws over his face to smooth the fur there, then rolled belly up and gave Potter his very best ferret's grin. It wasn't an apology, per se, but it _was_ an olive branch.

Potter frowned flatly at him. "You think that's going to work a second time?" he said, tone dubious.

Draco nodded, wiggling shamelessly.

"I don't even like you," Potter groused. The claim rang hollow when he moved to pet Draco before he'd even finished speaking. 

 _Save it for someone who believes you,_ Draco replied, chest puffed up with smug self-congratulation. He curled himself around Potter's fingers, nipping at them playfully.

"You're ridiculous," Potter chuckled. He gripped Draco around the middle and shook him on the desk, pretending to wrestle. "I don't know how much of this is the ferret in you but I hope at least some of it stays," he confessed. Draco latched onto his hand with his forepaws and kicked at him with his back, feeling the freedom to be a good deal more silly than usual. He could grant that this unwanted transformation had had an unexpected benefit or two.

"Am I interrupting something?" came a familiar voice from the doorway.

Draco and Potter leapt apart as if stung (and Draco immediately kicked himself for the blatantly obvious admission of guilt). Granger cocked an amused brow at the both of them and strode into the room.

"We were just...uh...waiting for you," Potter said defensively, tugging at his fringe as he did so. Even without the tell, it was woefully unconvincing. His prevarication was so bad, in fact, that it probably had the opposite effect and made Granger think they had been up to something decidedly less innocent than a bit of play.

Oh well. She could think whatever she wanted as long as she brewed his antidote.

"Sure you were," she smirked. Then, with her characteristic go-getter's attitude, she rubbed her hands together and proclaimed, "All right, boys, what've we got to work with?"

Draco could kiss her. (Not really, but he _was_ appreciative.)

"Malfoy's notebooks," Harry answered quickly, glad of the distraction. "You're in for a treat, 'Mione," he added archly as he passed them over to Granger. " _They're coded._ "

Draco scowled at the git for his sass. Granger, for her part, looked delighted.


	11. Chapter 11

Granger inspected the pages. Draco held his breath. "Is it a _code_ or a _cipher_?" she shrewdly inquired after a brief study of the contents.

Draco yipped twice, nearly hopping in his enthusiasm. "The second one," Potter translated. (His assistance was probably unnecessary but Draco couldn't fault the desire to feel useful.)

Granger looked at the book again. He could practically see the gears working in her brain. "Caesar shift, transposition, or a book cipher?" 

Draco grinned. Why the woman had been sorted Gryffindor over Ravenclaw remained a mystery, but he trilled twice nonetheless.

"Right," Granger nodded (very much like Potter in the mannerism) and examined an entry closely, absently chewing a stubby thumbnail as she worked.

"It's not written backwards..." she muttered to herself. "And it doesn't appear as though you've swapped pairs..."

Bless her, she was on the right track, but it would be so much faster if he could just show her. He stood fully upright and reached for the book, grunting and snorting to get her attention.

No response.

"She's in the zone," Potter explained, grinning ruefully. "A cauldron could explode in here and she might not notice." He swiped the book from Granger--who protested shrilly--and set it before him, even going so far as to open it to the correct potion-stained page.

 _Much obliged_ , Draco chirruped, bumping his head on Potter's fingers before they were withdrawn. Scanning the ingredients near him on the table, he picked one he knew was reflected in his notes and searched for it on the page. Finding it quickly, he pointed with one clawed digit at the final and initial letters of the word.

Granger leaned forward to peer at his gestures. "You switched first and last?" He nodded, yipping excitedly.

He pointed again to make sure she was looking at the correct word then bounded to its real life counterpart in a squat blue jar. Granger read the label: "Fluxweed."

He ran back to the page and jabbed at the word.

"So that one is Fluxweed?" _Yes_. "With the first and last letters transposed?" She looked to him for confirmation and Draco nodded hard enough to put a kink in his neck. "It obviously isn't written in English then," she deduced. Spot on. He trilled and danced about the table, more fond of the pair than he ever had been--Granger for her wonderful, clever mind and Potter for having the good sense to fire-call the woman (and maybe a few other things).

At this rate, he'd be back to himself in no time!

Granger grinned and returned to her study. "It's not Latin, French, or Spanish," she determined in short order, brow furrowed in concentration as she transposed and translated possibilities. "Italian?" Draco shook his head. "German?" _No_. "Portuguese?" _No_. "Gaelic?" _No_.

Ugh. There went his short-lived optimism. This could take all night!

"Is it Dutch?" Potter asked out of the blue.

Granger and Draco both stared at him, Draco slack-jawed and disbelieving. He collected himself sufficiently to snap his mouth shut and nod after a minute.

_How did you know?_

Granger echoed the question, equally surprised; Potter looked bashful and shuffled where he stood.

"Erm...I know the languages Malfoy is fluent in," he answered sheepishly. "They're in his file. Dutch stuck out at me because I wondered why he'd bothered with it."

 _My file?_ Draco was at a loss as to how or why Potter would have seen his employee records or why such information would be in them in the first place. Then it dawned on him. Not his _staff_ file, Potter meant his dossier at the DMLE. His criminal record.

Delightful.

Putting aside for the time being the unpleasant twist in his gut the realization engendered, he focused his attention on Granger (who wore an inscrutable expression).

"It shouldn't be hard for me to translate," she asserted, turning her intelligent gaze on him, "but it will be time consuming." She tucked a wayward curl behind her ear. "If it's all right with you, I'd like to take your notes home with me. I promise I won't duplicate, publish, or steal any of your work, though I might like to try this potion after it's been perfected."

She graced him with a prettier smile than any he'd seen on her before (largely owing to the fact that it was friendly and directed at him for the first time in...well, _ever_ ). He found he rather liked it, but, being mistrustful by nature, he was not best pleased by her request.

It was unrealistic to think that she could translate enough to begin developing an antidote that evening so the ask was not unreasonable. But still, it made him uneasy. Not that he doubted Granger's word. _Perish the thought._ It was that those notes comprised nearly all of his life's work and what may very well be his greatest accomplishment as a potioneer. Not something he was eager to part with.

Ultimately, however, he had to accept that Granger was there to help out of the Gryffindory goodness of her heart. And if he couldn't trust the brightest witch in an age, who could he?

Draco nodded his acquiescence (with no small measure of misgiving) and Granger retrieved the journal to tuck away in her bag. "I'll get right on it," she vowed, obviously enthused by the prospect. "We'll have you sorted in no time, Malfoy."

He sincerely hoped that was true.

Granger made to leave but stopped to kiss Potter on the cheek on her way out. If Draco wasn't mistaken, she whispered something in his ear before departing. 

And then it was just the two of them once again.

"So..." Potter began, self-consciously rubbing the back of his neck. Draco cocked his head.

"You hungry?"


	12. Chapter 12

When Draco stopped to consider it, he discovered that he wasn't just hungry, he was _famished_. It had to be close to dinner time. What little light filtered through the murky lake water outside his window had been steadily dimming since they'd arrived at the lab. If it weren't for the torches lining the walls, they wouldn't be able to see much of anything.

And he hadn't eaten since breakfast.

He'd skipped the afternoon meal in favour of his experiments because he was nearing a breakthrough. To make matters worse, it seemed his metabolism was heightened in this form--his gut was on the verge of digesting itself.

But the events of the last few minutes had left him with a sour stomach and sorely disappointed. His unlikely partnership with Potter had been so much more positive and productive than he could have hoped that by the time Granger arrived and displayed her famous wit, he'd begun to believe he might be cured by nightfall.

Which was irrational, he knew. Even with his perfect knowledge of the steps to brew the volatile potion and the process of reversal, it would probably be a full twenty-four hours before he had a working antidote if he were the one executing the task. Reason dictated he give Granger at least twice as long. And that wasn't accounting for translation time.

Salazar, he was doomed to be a fucking ferret through Christmas.

_Mother will be thrilled._

He slumped to the tabletop, listless and despondent.

"Hey. Draco," Potter called, worry evident in his voice. He crouched down next to him until they were at eye level. "Are you sad or sick? I can't tell. Do I need to take you to Poppy?"

First name again. There'd been none of that when Granger was around. Draco didn't bother to reply, though he resolved to bite the git if he attempted bringing him to the infirmary.

Potter looked closely at him, seeking clues to the source of his distress since none were forthcoming. From that distance Draco could see the flecks of jade and topaz in his striking emerald eyes. Precious and powerful stones, the lot of them. Everyone always said they were his mother's eyes but that wasn't a muggle colour--they sparkled and shone with pure magic. They may as well be Merlin's eyes, filled with concern for Draco's wellbeing.

 _I'm fine_ , he sighed, heaving himself up to standing with effort. He took four dragging steps to the edge of the table and butted against Potter's chin.

"Just sad then?" Potter asked, stroking two fingers down Draco's spine, making him shiver. He inclined his head in a slight nod. "Hermione will figure it out," Potter replied reassuringly, endlessly confident. "You'll be back to your grumpy, not-at-all-cuddly self in no time."

Draco gave an indignant snort but didn't move out from under from Potter's touch. It was comforting. As was his cheek, in a way.

"Come on," Potter urged, gathering him up in his arms. "It's time for dinner."

Apparently Draco didn't have a say in the matter. That was fine--he really was hungry and it would be challenging to forage for himself as he was.

The halls remained blessedly empty as they traversed the castle. Potter refrained from speaking while they were out, which Draco appreciated; he was in no mood for curious inquiries. He contented himself with basking in radiant body heat and listening to Potter's strong, steady heartbeat. (And if he inhaled rather deeply of the man's scent, who was anyone to judge.)

Potter stole into the kitchens where the house-elves were hard at work preparing the evening meal. Ordinarily they would scramble to hide when a human entered their sanctum, but ordinary seldom applied to Potter. They greeted him as an old friend and buzzed about him, eager to serve. He seemed to know them all by name and asked after their health and other such trivialities.

Amidst the chit chat, he requested that two plates of dinner be sent to his rooms when ready, claiming a false headache and a hearty appetite. (Why he took the trouble of lying to the creatures when they would have gladly licked his boots if only he asked, Draco had no idea.) The elves agreed, of course, and soon Potter was on his way to the Defense Against the Dark Arts tower with Draco in tow.

He couldn't help but wonder why he'd been invited back into the man's rooms, especially after his unwelcome intrusion earlier in the day, but he wasn't about to look a gift Gryffindor in the mouth. If he was doomed to continue this infernal entrapment, at least he could benefit from Potter's odd penchant for weasels and their ilk.


	13. Chapter 13

"Make yourself comfortable," Potter offered, placing Draco on the sofa whilst he went into the kitchenette to do Merlin-knows-what.

Draco turned in several circles and scratched compulsively at the cushions before he was ready to lay down. Potter returned a minute later with a bottle of pumpkin juice and a saucer of water.

"Thirsty?" he asked solicitously, sitting next to Draco and holding the water out for him.

Yes, quite. But Draco wasn't eager to drink out of a dish--there was no way to do so with decorum. With a sinking feeling, he realized dinner was going to pose the same problem, only magnified.

His need for sustenance drove him to ignore his pride. (There had been too much of that going around for his liking.) He stretched to reach the saucer without getting up and gingerly lapped at the water. It was ungainly, despite his best effort. Droplets of water beaded in his whiskers and fur, and Potter suffered backsplash.

Draco abandoned the task before his thirst was fully slaked to groom himself into a semblance of tidiness. Potter set the dish on the low table and reclined back into the cushions of the sofa, propping an ankle over his knee and twisting the cap off his beverage. He looked like he wanted to say something but was interrupted by the sudden  _pop!_ of their dinner appearing before them.

"That was fast," he dryly remarked.

Draco's nose twitched, sniffing at the mouthwatering aroma. Pride be damned, he was hungry!

He leapt onto the table to appraise the two plates. They were nearly identical--both heaped with juicy baked chicken, golden fried potatoes, and vibrant steamed broccoli--but one featured the addition of two boiled eggs. He instinctively knew that plate was meant for him and he silently thanked the house-elves for their thoughtfulness. He hadn't even been certain they'd noticed him in the kitchen, so enamoured were they with Potter's presence.

He was about to dive in with gusto when his neck prickled with the sensation of being watched. He looked over his shoulder at Potter, who was indeed looking back at him.

"Don't let me stop you," he waved Draco off and picked up his own plate, holding his pumpkin juice between his knees.

When he was sure Potter's attention was focused elsewhere, Draco pulled a strip of chicken free with his claws and attempted a dainty nibble. It wasn't long before he decided that table manners were more trouble than they were worth and dug in with both paws, chewing noisily (because there was simply no other way to do it).

The food was delicious--tender, juicy, and flavourful in a way he'd never noticed before. The house-elves were on to something with those eggs; the yolks were especially heavenly. He ate until he was sluggish, fat, and full--his furry belly distended from his gluttony (which he blamed entirely on his greedy ferret brain).

When he couldn't possibly eat another bite, he moved away from the carnage on his half-empty plate to groom himself meticulously. Only once he was clean did he check on Potter, still eating quietly behind him.

He smiled when he noticed Draco. "I won't breathe a word of this to anyone," he promised.

In his opinion, Gryffindors as a whole were too quick to give up quality blackmail material, but he didn't mind benefiting from their vaunted honour when he could. He walked to the edge of the table and reached for Potter, unwilling to make the jump in his current state. Potter obediently set his plate aside and helped him across. Once on the sofa, Draco climbed into his lap and curled up to sleep his overindulgence off.

"Oh really?" Potter chuckled.

 _You told me to make myself comfortable_ , he replied haughtily, doing just that.

Potter grinned. "Of course, Your Majesty."

Draco was lulled to sleep with long, steady strokes and the whisper of breath above him. 


	14. Chapter 14

Draco awoke with a start, disoriented and alarmed. He didn't know where he was and his gut twisted in agony.

"Draco, what's wrong?" came an alarmed voice in the darkness.

_Potter?_

The events of the day swam to the surface of his mind, but they were scattered and disjointed by the terrible pain.

Draco gasped, lurching forward as his body reshaped itself--muscle, sinew, and skin stretching, tearing, and reforming; bones grinding into new alignment.

 _The potion must be wearing off!_ Merlin, why hadn't he considered the possibility?

A cry was wrenched from his lungs as his joints snapped into place--shoulders, elbows, ankles, and knees; knuckles, writs, and jaw--all at the same time, excruciatingly. His fur receded, teeth and nails flattened and dulled. His stomach threatened to unload its contents but he forced them down.

Sobbing with the strain of it, he held himself on four shaking limbs before crumpling onto Potter's sofa.

Onto _Potter_ by the feel of it (and the telltale 'oof!').

It was done.

As he panted for breath, a cautious hand brushed sweat-dampened hair off his forehead before moving down his back, rubbing soothingly.

"Transformation's a bitch, innit?" Potter joked quietly after a bit, when Draco's breathing began to even out.

"Better than a crucio," he retorted between breaths, favouring dark humour in times like these.

"Too right."

Potter continued petting him, neglecting to comment on Draco's nudity or the fact he still occupied his lap. "Potion wore off then?" he asked, though the answer was obvious.

"Apparently."

"'Mione's going to be disappointed."

Draco opened his eyes, blinking at the light (the torches had been turned on low at some point in the last few minutes). "I'll be sure to send her my condolences."

Potter's laugh was warm and dry as early autumn. "I like it better when I can understand you."

Pain largely forgotten--a useful byproduct of the Dark Lord's 'tutelage'--Draco rolled until he was looking up at the man, untroubled by his lack of clothing. Potter left his hand in place, which meant it now rested on his naked abdomen; his palm was a scorching brand, his expression toward Draco open and inexplicably fond.

The dizzy, chaotic feelings of the afternoon coalesced into pure and simple want. It pooled hot and heavy in his gut.

"You seemed to do all right before," he said flirtatiously, voice a silken purr.

Potter's eyes darkened (and only then did Draco realize his spectacles were missing). "Allow me to rephrase," he replied, the husky timbre going straight to Draco's cock. "I like it better when I can hear your _voice_." He kneaded Draco's stomach. "Your pretty posh accent does it for me."

Draco wasn't sure who moved first, but Potter was horizontal in a flash, stretched out on top of him with his fingers in Draco's hair and his tongue down his throat. Draco, for his part, had one leg wrapped around Potter's thighs while his greedy hands lifted his shirt to get at the blazing skin beneath.

"This is a terrible idea," he broke away to gasp, unfastening Potter's denims and shoving them down his hips as he spoke.

"The worst," Potter agreed, clamping down on Draco's neck and thrusting against him deliciously. "We should at least talk through some things first," he mumbled into Draco's skin, palming the side of his arse and outer thigh.

Draco tugged his trousers down as far as he could reach then pushed them the rest of the way off with his feet. "I concur. Sofa or bed?"

Potter chuckled. "Bed. But that isn't what I meant." He ceased his rutting to look Draco in the eye. Draco bit back a whine.

"I like you," Potter proclaimed. "Rather a lot." Fucking Gryffindors interrupting perfectly good shagging for heartfelt bloody declarations. "This is where I'd usually say something smart like 'Merlin knows why,'" he continued, "but I actually do know. It isn't hard to figure out--you're brilliant and sexy and a right pompous git, but you genuinely care about your students and you're braver than anyone gives you credit for. _And_ you've got such nice hair," he added facetiously, twisting a lock of it around his finger.

Maintaining his disapproving glare through the monologue was a struggle, but Draco soldiered on.

"I didn't think you'd ever reciprocate," Potter admitted with a small, self-deprecating smile. "But then you showed up on my doorstep all sweet and helpless--" Draco growled, Potter ignored him. "And you tolerated my touches and didn't try to claw my eyes out when I teased you, and I realized I might actually have a chance. Now I'm feeling fairly optimistic because you didn't run off the moment you changed back and, well, _this_ ," he rocked against Draco, making him inhale sharply, his grin victorious and pleased. "But I still want to hear it from you: do you really want this?"

Did Draco really want Potter--perfect, irritating, selfless, clever, stupid-haired, maddening, gorgeous, heroic, impossible _Potter_?

Salazar's saggy undergarments, of course he did!

"You just want me talking more because you get off on it," he replied accusingly, eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. "I'm on to you."

Potter snorted. "You got me," he answered with a wink. "It's that snobby, superior drawl. Call me a 'speccy git' and it'll be all over."

Draco laughed despite himself and decided he was quite all right with the events of the day for bringing him there. Difficult as it was to believe.

He shifted to alleviate the discomfort in his spine from cramming onto the too-short sofa, unintentionally rubbing their erections together in the process and nearly derailing his train of thought.

"I am not going to tell you how long I've wanted you because it reflects poorly on me," he answered eventually. "Suffice it to say, this is not a potion-induced effect."

Potter's sweet smile was more dangerous than an Imperio. Draco wiped it off his face by grabbing two handfuls of his firm arse and writhing beneath him.

"You were _exceedingly_ helpful today," he drawled, drawing each word out until it was practically a moan. "I'd like to show my appreciation. What's say we recreate your afternoon wank fantasy?"

Potter's grin was easier to manage than the previous smile, if only just. "I'm not sure you're ready for that one," he replied, tone arch. "It's rather _kinky_."

Draco gave him his flattest expression. "I started putting moves on you while I was still a _ferret_ , Potter."

"Fair enough." Potter rolled off the sofa, pulling Draco with him. "Let's go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, lovelies: I'm not going to write out the sex that ensues. I'm leaving that to your imagination. Just know that it is like /absurdly/ sexy ;)
> 
> One chapter left!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sunday Special: Two Chapters for the Price of One!
> 
> This is it, folks. Thank you so much for reading and commenting. You've been just the best <3

Draco was utterly spent. The grey light of pre-dawn was just beginning to peek in through Potter's window as they laid tangled up in his sheets.

"That was brilliant," Potter sighed happily.

"So you've said," Draco replied, his smugness knowing no bounds. (He'd damn well _earned_ that praise; Merlin, he'd be feeling it in the morning.)

Potter pinched him on the shoulder but snuggled in harder as soon as it was done. Who knew the Saviour of the Wizarding World was such a Hufflepuff after sex?

...On second thought, it wasn't all that surprising.

"It's obvious you didn't intend to become a ferret," he remarked (apropos of nothing), trailing his fingers over Draco's abdomen as though he still had fur. "What did you _want_ to be?"

Draco considered it a moment. "Something powerful and majestic," he admitted. "One of the big cats, perhaps."

Potter snickered. "What, like a tiger?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes, like a tiger," Draco irritably snapped. "And you can check your tone or vacate the bed."

Potter levered himself up on one arm to grin at him. His hair was an absolute disaster and his face bore imprints from the pillow. "First off, it's my bed, but neither one of us is going anywhere," he asserted presumptuously. "Secondly, forgive me, but you're just not very tiger-like. The ferret suits you better--they're pretty and agile and clever. Besides," he added philosophically, dropping back down onto Draco's chest, "rodents are more useful animagi. They and birds are best for reconnaissance."

"Ferrets are not rodents," Draco said (just to be contrary).

"Small mammals then, prat."

"Well I didn't want to be _useful_ ," Draco's lip curled in disgust. "I wanted to be fearsome."

Potter kissed his clavicle. "Does it help any if I say you make a particularly fearsome ferret?" he simpered.

"No. Now stop talking."

Potter laughed, rocking his frame with the force of it. In spite of his affected frown, Draco was really quite content.

"What do you suppose _your_ form would be?" he asked after a few quiet moments. The question gnawed at him. Potter could easily be a lion...with a particularly scruffy black mane. Or a bear. Maybe even a bull. Something large and protective, he was sure.

"I know what my form is, actually."

Draco pushed himself up to stare at the man.

"I'm a registered animagus," he grinned cheekily.

Draco rolled his eyes. "You are not. That would have gone to press the moment you submitted your forms. Imbecile."

"Not if the DMLE didn't want the public to know," Potter replied enigmatically, eyes sparkling.

Draco was dismayed. "You're serious?"

Potter nodded, expression earnest, if irreverent.

"So what is it, then?" Draco demanded, his impatience getting the better of him.

"Wouldn't you like to know," Potter smirked.

Just for that, Draco tackled the impertinent brat. He should have learned by now Draco didn't have to be a ferret to _bite_.

 

 **Fin**.


End file.
